


deus ex imperium

by strangelysweet



Category: Persona 5
Genre: "akira doesn't wear pants" the fic, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Car Accidents, Character Death, Character Undeath, Emotional Repression, F/F, Gays Who Can't Drive, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Time Loop, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, author regretting the workload she's giving herself, blowing up gas stations to make god fight you, time-line fuckery, to name a few, what's the opposite of slow burn?, whirlwind?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:13:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27421000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangelysweet/pseuds/strangelysweet
Summary: Our Father, who art around us, teach us repentance and govern us with thy blade-like hands.Kurusu Akira wakes up every morning, takes a shower, checks the calendar, and lives forever. Akechi Goro does the same.Permanence is bliss.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist, Kitagawa Yusuke & Sakura Futaba, Kurusu Akira/Niijima Makoto, Lala Escargot & Kurusu Akira, Niijima Sae/Takemi Tae, Okumura Haru/Sakamoto Ryuji, Sakura Futaba/Takamaki Ann
Comments: 8
Kudos: 31





	1. apocrypha

Angels have eyes to see, mouths to smile, and hands to pray with. Their tongues are gilded and golden, sitting heavily in their mouths. An angel does not frown. An angel blinks all of their eyes, yes, every single one, and they bat their eyelashes. Their hands are gentle and turned upward, so their palms are facing their father, _Our_ father. Hallowed be thy name, kingdom come, Earth as it is in Heaven. Sins, trespassing against us. 

Trespassing should be punished with death. The heavy-handed, fiery sword of Uriel, the fury of Michael and his blade that slew The Beast, or the kindness of Gabriel, that makes all repent, whether they like it or not. Repentance _is_ encouraged but more so required. All have sinned in the presence of the Lord, but not the angels. Oh, _no_ , not the angels. Perfect beings of hands, eyes, feathers, and ever-turning rings. There is constant change in their form, but they are made of what the Lord wills. Order and law lay in their bones, hollowed out like that of the birds in the sky. 

The world ends. The Lord descends, and He reels in his champions, collecting their bodies like discarded doll parts, useless by themselves, but whole when put back together. The skies rain blood, the bones of the Earth raise themselves again, and there is no one to lead the pests when they plan to attack. Not since the first cycle. 

Our Lord was cunning and smart, you see, and He realized that this world is nothing but a spinning ball. And if one were to, say, catch the ball, halt its movement and then throw it into the air, their hands would be the ones to hold it. Our Lord took the ball in His golden, sword-sharp fingers, and He caught it, time and time again. The ball was in His control. Pun not intended, but you must excuse us, for we are simply the messengers. Do not eat us. We are _sharp_. 

The Lord played with the ball. He changed its shape, changed the texture, pulled it inside out, made it small, and made it big. The world is still being played with. However, in an experiment, there are variables, and those variables are either controlled or not. It is almost funny when we think about it, as the Lord couldn't extend His reach to a couple of pitiful vermin. There are two of them. No matter where or when they are, they are always together, always striding against the orbit of the ball. We would laugh if we could, but the Lord cannot control them. He has tried and is still trying because no matter how far apart He places them, the vermin find their way back to each other, and they fell Him. They _kill_ our God. Our Father. Hallowed be thy name. Forgive them of their sins, for they do not know what they do. 

But they _do_. The vermin know more than they should. They are unerasable, no matter how short their lifespans are. One cannot exist without the other. They are two sides of the same coin. One golden, flipping coin, forever trapped in movement as Our Lord God Yaldabaoth turns it over in His hands, metal kissing metal. Vermin cannot do much if they are trapped on a coin, repeating the same movement for as long as Our Lord wills it.

Rejoice, for the world's time has been halted. Death of death, Hell's destruction, and order in the new, ageless age of Our God. So it shall be, forever and ever, Amen.


	2. old testament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When we sing, it is in triumph. Our Lord has indeed won, as the clock lies in his hands, and the vermin are destroying themselves. It is always wonderful when the machinations of Our Father work seamlessly.  
> We are but cogs. All is how he wills it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Suicide References, Self-Harm References, Drinking.
> 
> Please, please, please be careful with this one because I will be mentioning self-harm and suicide a lot. As always, I'm here to tell you that you matter and that people love you! take care!  
> <3  
> UK Samaritans Hotline: +44 116 123  
> USA National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 1-800-273-8255

When the alarm clock goes off, Akira can still feel the rope around his neck. It burns in a way that chokes, and his throat feels as if it's lined with needles. He lies there, the beeping of the alarm clock resonating like a repeated strike to the face. He's still here. Alive. Eventually, listening to shrill beeps gets old, and Akira kicks off the covers, shuffling across the cold floor of the attic to descend the stairs, dragging the towel Sojiro has left him from the night that was meant to be before off of the railing. 

It always takes fourteen seconds for the water to turn hot. The steam rolls off of Akira's back, and he watches the condensation gather at the top of the glass walls, fat drops of hot water rolling down the sides. He doesn't take a long shower this time. No real reason why; he simply doesn't want to. A white shirt and dark blue jeans are waiting for him upstairs, folded neatly on his bed. He ignores them, instead opting for a grey knit sweater, pulling it over his boxers, and planning to do nothing. Nothing doesn't last very long. His phone rings, and reluctantly, he raises it to his ear. 

"Hello?" Akira's voice is still hoarse from where the rope dug into his skin.

Akechi Goro answers from the other line, and as usual, he's dropped the façade. "Kurusu. I'm glad I caught you. I'm outside, and it starts raining in about three minutes, so come let me in." 

Akira yawns. "What if I didn't?"

"Then I'd be soaked, and you'd have to deal with it. Let me in before I break the lock." He retorts sharply. "We both know how Sakura-san reacted to that last time."

He slowly thumps down the stairs, his mismatched socks gliding over the polished hardwood of the floor. Sure enough, Akechi stands outside, holding his own phone to his ear. A few stray raindrops drip onto the window as Akira opens the door to Leblanc, still holding the phone. 

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to call you back," He says, staring dead at the older boy. "An insistent detective won't stop knocking on my door, demanding to be let in like a petulant cat." 

Akechi hangs up, tucking the phone in his pocket. " _Ha ha_ , Kurusu. You're quite the comedian." 

Walking past him with the conviction that only someone like him could retain after repeating a single day for numerous times, Akechi has already stopped bringing his briefcase along with him to their meetings. Nothing in there was useful. In the case, there were few documents on the latest assignments he'd been drafted into, loose leaflets on recent Phantom Thief news, a gun, a silencer, and a small St. Christopher's pendant that belonged to his mother. Akechi's mother was not religious. Akira found this out when they had found a bottle of wine Sojiro used in his cooking hidden underneath the large pot in the cupboard. They pretend that cycle never happened. 

With piercing eyes, Akechi scans over Akira with an inscrutable look on his face. "You're not wearing pants." 

Akira shakes his head. "No, I am not."

"Were you even planning on trying to fix this today?" He asks, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. 

Akira rolls his eyes and immediately goes for the full bottle of whiskey Sojiro keeps behind the rows of coffee bean jars. "Cut me some slack, Detective. Do you want a glass?" 

Sighing, Akechi takes a seat at the bar. "I liked it when you made me coffee." 

He sits there, pouting like a baby as Akira takes a large swig from the bottle. Sojiro doesn't come in on Sundays, let alone at six in the morning. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, the golden liquid swishing around the bottle.

"I don't do that anymore. Not for you, at least." Akira croaks, the whiskey burning the wounds hiding under today's layer of healthy flesh, fully healed on the outside but still raw somewhere between the lines. 

"Why not?" Akechi grins like a fox, tapping the wooden table with his gloved fingers. "You do something for me, I do something for you?" 

"Are you that desperate for a cup of coffee," He asks plainly, pushing his hair from his face, "that you offer to hit on me for it?" 

Akechi slumps in his seat, stretching one arm over to the back of another bar stool. He's tired, but not the kind Akira can see on the surface. It's in his bones, in the structure of his very being, and it feels _so_ familiar. They sit in silence as Akira stares pointedly at the coffee machine, the silver buttons gleaming back at him like sharp teeth. 

"Are you even into men?" Akechi asks suddenly, looking up at his companion. 

Mulling it over with another sip of whiskey, Akira stares at the ceiling in contemplation. "Guess so." 

Akechi gazes at him in thought, humming a note of mere acknowledgment. "So, was Makoto just-" 

"And that's where we stop for today. I am so not in the right frame of mind to talk to you about my exes." Akira sets the bottle down on the bar. 

There's a glint in the brown-haired boy's eye that Akira doesn't like. Akechi's smile widens, and suddenly, it's the plastic, manufactured grin he has in interviews. "Oh? Is that the case? Maybe I would stop prying about if you made me a cup of coffee?" 

Akira grips the bar, leveling his face with Akechi's. "How far are you willing to go for a single cup of coffee? Blackmail?" 

"It's not blackmailing if you deserve it." He replies, a shit-eating grin on his face. 

Akira makes him the damn coffee.

Akechi leaves at eleven that morning. Something about a book he wanted to read before the end of the day. Akira is left alone to his own devices before the exact times that each of his friends step into Leblanc. Of course, he puts on some jeans. His motivation gets him that far, at least. First, it's Futaba.

"Oh, hey, Akira. Didn't know you'd be here today." She says. 

Akira nods. "Yeah, I'm here. Can I get you anything?" 

As usual, she takes a deep breath, about to order something Akira will never hear when Ann comes in. The number of times he's pressed her on what her choice was going to be plagues him every single cycle, but he knows he'll never find out. Waving, Ann troops in, clad in the lastest big-name brands from her shoot.

"Good morning!" She beams cheerily, forever the peppiest in the room. Futaba goes bright red. 

"G-Good morning! How was your shoot?" She stammers, her hands fiddling with her hair. 

Akira steps behind the bar, switching the filters on the coffee machines. He knows Ann's order off by heart, so as Futaba flails like a worm on the end of a hook, he brews her the coffee she wants. Peering at the girls through his fringe, he watches as Ann brings a freshly manicured hand to her face. It's always raspberry pink. 

"It was really great, thanks for asking! Although," She averts her eyes, staring at the floor, "Mika was being a pain again." 

Akira watches as anger boils in the tiny body of Sakura Futaba. Just at the mention of the name "Mika," she's a moment away from exploding, hands balled into fists. 

"Damn, she's just the worst," Futaba's voice is trembling with anger, brows knitted with fury. 

Twirling a strand of golden hair around her index finger, the model sighs. "I'm not so sure. I wonder if I'm the one who's in the wrong here. I just... Don't think I'm good enough to compare myself to her." 

Akira pretends to go looking for something in the bathroom, giving the girls some privacy. From where the door is ajar, he can see Futaba facing Ann, twisting the hem of her shirt in her hands as she stammers. 

"Ann, that's so not true! You're so passionate and kind," Futaba argues, her face red, "Mika's words don't mean anything!" 

"Futaba," Ann murmurs, and Akira can't bear to watch her flounder over her next words, so he shuts the door. 

Through the frosted glass, he can see Futaba grab Ann's hands. He knows what she says next. 

"Ann, you're so beautiful and nice, and I just," She closes her eyes, her face red, "I love you!"

Akira grabs the mop just as Ann flees, running out of Leblanc with a red face. When he opens the door, Futaba's still staring at the door, watching it close. His friend sighs, sitting at the bar, her forehead resting on the countertop. Akira pushes a mug of hot chocolate towards her, patting her on the head. 

"You did well," He says, "that was really nice of you." 

The first time Akira saw the confession, he felt awful for trying to console Futaba with speech. She froze up, and whenever Akira tried to talk to her in detail, she would burst into tears, running out of the café. On his third try, he gave her a hot drink, which she refused, but stayed for a while longer. The more he tries to talk to her, the worse it gets. So this time, he starts preparing her a white hot chocolate. 

Futaba groans. "I messed that up so bad." 

Miserably, she lifts her head up, resting her chin on the surface of the bar. Eyeing the hot drink, her hand tentatively creeps onto the bar, toying with the handle of the mug. Much to Akira's frustration, she wrinkles her nose and pushes it away.

"'M not in the mood." She mumbles, then peels herself from the chair. "Going home. See you tomorrow, I guess."

Akira sighs, mentally crossing hot chocolate from the list of things he's guessed she wants. Offering her a sympathetic smile, he waves as she trundles out of the door, nearly walking straight into Akira's next customers. It's still jarring to see Takemi Tae, the doctor of the shady, back-alley clinic next to the cinema, arm and arm with Niijima Sae, a dignified, neutral prosecutor. Tae twirls a dark purple lollipop in her fingers, the flash of a tongue bar behind the shiny candy. Akira, knowing what she'll do next, can only smile and feign surprise. 

"Oh, good morning!" He chimes, wiping the bar down and rubbing the mark where Futaba's forehead hit the wood a few times. 

Tae doesn't smile. She never has, but she lazily gives him a two-fingered salute. Sae, her fingers drumming on the handle of her handbag, smiles brightly. 

"Good morning, indeed. Do you think you could make some time for us? I know it's your day off, but where else would we get the best coffee in all of Tokyo?" She says, blushing slightly as Tae's hand slides down her arm to intertwine her fingers in hers. 

Akira nods. "Yeah, sure. What can I get you?" 

Every single time, Tae orders an espresso, while Sae opts to choose the option that keeps Akira from smashing his head repeatedly against the wall. 

Her hand comes underneath her chin, and a perfectly manicured fingernail taps her lips. Then, after looking at the doctor, she brushes her hair over her shoulder. 

"Surprise me." 

Akira does as he's told. Giving her a quick nod, he starts brewing Sae a mocha. It's simple, but he doesn't have the tutelage of Sojiro over the weekend, so he's been stuck to practicing the basics. As he finishes both drinks, he looks up to catch Sae pick up her phone. He frowns. Usually, the phonecall comes later, after the clock chimes two. She mutters something into the receiver, standing up to go talk outside. Watching her go with the specific kind of tiredness of someone who's girlfriend is also married to her work, Tae sighs. 

"Honestly," She mutters, fiddling with the military tag around her neck, "she's a doctor's worst nightmare. Never takes a break, sleeps less than six hours, and constantly skipping meals." 

"I know someone like that," Akira says, unsure of why he chooses to reply like that. "Dedicated, but sometimes to the wrong thing." 

As the doctor leans over the bar, her necklaces clack against the counter. 

"You got one too? Yeah, a real pain in the ass." 

She looks over her shoulder, a misty look in her eyes. "Can't help but love 'em, though, right?" 

Akira splutters, nearly knocking Sae's drink over. "I-I don't... I wouldn't necessarily say that." 

Amused, Tae quirks an eyebrow, her kohl-lined eyes boring into him like knives. "Oh? Looks like I hit something there."

Looking pointedly at the floor, Akira busies his hands with the jars of coffee beans on the shelves. He isn't _in_ _love_ with anyone. He isn't even sure if he can do that anymore. Time is a tricky thing, and too much of it can desensitize people from the world. Akira hasn't felt anything that seems intense to him, and the most he can get out of the repeated days is a sense of deep yearning for the end. Not necessarily death, but something that stops. Like sleep without the alarm, the café without company, and talking without the knowledge of every single reply there could ever be. More than anything, Akira wants control. The rope burn that slides underneath his skin feels like great, slithering worms behind the guise of unmarred flesh. Instinctively, he raises a hand to his neck, rubbing the back of it like one would do to soothe a blossoming bruise.

"I'm joking, guinea pig," Tae says, a touch of concern in her voice. "I didn't mean to offend." 

Akira looks up, waving his hand in a gesture of nonchalance. "Oh, no, don't worry about it." 

As the door opens and the bell rings, Sae runs a hand through her hair. "Sorry about that. Insistent colleague." 

"It's fine," Her girlfriend turns, leaning her arm on the bar. "You better drink your coffee quick, though. It'll get cold." 

Just as she's about to sit down, her phone makes an insistent chime, and she huffs. Angrily typing back at it, she sighs, going to pick up her bag. Tae, frowning, watches her with concern on her face. 

"I'm so sorry," Sae says dejectedly, "Something has just come up." 

Waving it away, Tae glances at the clock. "Oh, don't worry. It was about time for me to head back to work, anyway." 

Akira pours their drinks into the paper takeaway cups, watching Sae press a kiss to Tae's cheek. None of this has happened before. It sends a shiver of excitement down his spine, but he knows it's no sign of time unfreezing itself. As he hands Sae her cup, she lingers by the bar. 

"You wouldn't happen to have been in touch with Akechi recently, would you?" She asks. Akira's heart feels as if a fist has closed around it. "He's been saying some rather odd things today, and they made me quite worried." 

Akira shakes his head. "I can get in touch now if you want? If you're worried about him, I can talk to him."

Sae watches as her girlfriend walks out of the café, bringing another lollipop out of her lab coat. Turning back to Akira, she lowers her voice, her face twisting into a sympathetic smile. 

"It's not him I'm worried about, Kurusu. If you ever need to talk to someone, I'd be glad to help." She offers, her red lipgloss gleaming in the afternoon light. 

It feels as if his blood has halted in his body. He's not sure if the feeling in his heart is the stab of fear that comes with being found out or the slice of betrayal from the person who you knew you shouldn't have trusted but did anyway. Akira's not even sure if he should feel betrayed. There were cycles where he was sloppy, leaving the bloody razor in the sink or forgetting to keep the sleeves of his shirt over his arms. 

After he dies, he knows that even though it instantly turned into the beeping of the alarm clock, there is always the remaining hours of the day that Akechi has to go through, and more often than not, at least one of them is spent in Leblanc. Akira doesn't know how many times he's been left undisturbed or how many time's he's been found, but he knew that Akechi would have seen his dead body at least once.

Hearing those words come from Sae feels like a punch in the gut. He stares wordlessly at her, unable to move. The cup is still in his hand, and Sae's fingers enclose around the cardboard sleeve. A business card is wedged between her index and middle finger. 

"I'm always here for you, Kurusu. You saved me, so let me save you." She says, and as she leaves, the words feel like nails being hammered into a coffin.

Usually, Akira goes to see a shitty horror movie in the cinema, runs into Haru and Ryuji on their way to the batting cages. Haru tells him that Morgana is back at Leblanc, and Ryuji asks after Yusuke with a blush on his face. Haru stares sadly at the ground, trying to ignore the pain of watching her boyfriend fall head over heels for someone who isn't her. Akira always says he's doing well, and then he heads back to Leblanc. 

Futaba sits at the counter, Makoto and Yusuke on either side of her, each of them comforting her. It may not be the most socially adept duo, but Futaba stops crying for long enough to tell Akira that Morgana is sleeping with her tonight, whether he likes it or not. Then, after changing into his work clothes, he goes to work at Crossroads, where he gets to spend the evening listening to problems so much smaller than his. 

That doesn't happen this time. Instead, Akira is striding through Kichijoji, attempting to locate Akechi's apartment. Having been there only once, navigating the back alley that houses his apartment is more difficult in the bustling crowds. The only reason he finds it is by running into the very person he's hunting down. 

He glimpses Akechi from across the street, holding a paper bag and driving his keys into the door. Disregarding the dirty looks and shocked faces as he pushes past people, Akira calls out the boy's name, glaring at him fiercely. Akechi looks up, disinterested, but then he sees Akira marching across the street. A wide smile spreads across his face. 

"Ah, Akira, what a pleasant surprise." He says cordially, glancing down. "And you put on pants." 

Akira wastes no time in pushing Akechi roughly backward, grabbing him by the collar. "What the fuck did you tell Niijima?"

The saccharine smile spreads wider. "Which one?" 

The contents of the paper bag are strewn across the cobblestones, red apples and smashed glass littering the pavement. Akira's face contorts into an expression of pure rage. 

"You had absolutely no right," He starts, but Akechi cuts him off, cocking his head to the side. 

Dark red eyes stare up at him, devoid of empathy. "Please unhand me. They'll forget by tomorrow. Today, I mean. Or would it be yesterday?" 

"That is not the point, and you know it!" He hisses, shaking him firmly. 

Akechi's face is terrifyingly neutral, the smile has vanished, the expression on his face becoming unreadable with the conflict behind his eyes. "Akira, you must understand that nothing matters anymore." 

"You don't understand what it's like-" 

Suddenly, hands are pushing back, and Akira is staggering backward. A darkening sneer is on Akechi's face, and he rolls his shoulder back. Dark red wine seeps from the bag, slithering between the cracks in the cobblestone like blood. 

"I don't," He starts, speaking slowly, "understand?" 

His arm shoots out, caging Akira to the wall. Gently, Akechi's gloved hand presses against his chest, fingers walking up to trace the faint discoloration around his neck. They ghost over the silvery line of skin, the mark curving like a crescent moon. 

"I don't understand what it's like to have any control over my life slip through my fingers, do I? Oh, no, of course not. After all, this entire world revolves around you, doesn't it, Akira?" He says quietly, gently following the line of the scar with the pad of his thumb. "No, you're right. I have never cared as strongly as you have, hurt as strongly as you have, or even _felt_ as strongly as you have, have I? My life is a fairy tale compared to yours, dearest, and there is absolutely quite like having the closest people to you treat you like a rigged bomb, is there?"

Akira swallows. "That's not what I meant. Akechi, I just don't think it's fair for you to tell everyone you meet that I'm... That I'm like this." 

The detective's eyes widen in mock surprise. "Oh? It's not _fair_ , is it?"

"No, it's not! I don't care how much you hate me-" 

Akechi grits his teeth, roughly grabbing Akira's jaw and digging his fingers into his skin. "Do you think I'm doing this out of spite? You really think I _hate_ you, that I want you treated like a feral animal just because I don't like you?" 

He steps back, running a hand through his hair. Akira rubs his cheek, trying to calm down the heat thrumming through his veins. 

"Do you really think that because I'm such a heartless fucking monster, I _hate_ you? God, Akira, you just don't _see_ others right! I've had to find your dead body in that attic countless times, either bled to death on the floor or swinging from the rafters, and there has been nothing I can do about it. Do you really think I lack the compassion to _care_ about you?" Akechi yells, throwing his arm out. 

He can't speak. No words come out. Akira stares at the red liquid trickling through the cobblestones, then at Akechi. He's panting, glaring intently at the dark-haired boy. 

"I wanted," He rasps, "to make sure it didn't happen again." 

Akira's mouth opens, but he closes it. Finally, the words come out. "I'm sorry."

Akechi marches over to him, catching him by the collar, and angrily pushes his mouth against Akira's. The sheer force of it knocks Akira back against the wall, and he grabs the sleeve of Akechi's jacket to stabilize himself. Akechi's tongue presses against the tip of his canine, then against his lip, and a growl vibrates against Akira's mouth. 

When he draws back, Akira dazedly leans against the wall, weakly gripping the sleeve of Akechi's coat. The older boy looks him up and down, then fixes his tie, and promptly unlocks the door of his apartment, and vanishes inside. An apple rolls to his foot, gleaming and red despite the dirt on the skin of the fruit. The darkening skies cast long shadows over the alleyway, and Akira leans his head back, sighing deeply. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pushing my taesae agenda on the world  
> this won't be updating as frequently as other works because the chapters are long, so hang in there haha


	3. gospel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The vermin still run in circles, but their unity is compromised. Just as Our Lord wills it, we will watch on in silent, terrible glee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Suicide Attempt, Drinking, Blood, Injury

The alarm clock blares loudly in the quiet space of the attic, and Akira wakes up. Unsure of why he can still taste Akechi Goro on his tongue, he shuffles over to his closet, picking out the same sweater as always and awaiting the phone call before the rain. The ticking of the clock from downstairs is faint, a morbid reminder of what Akira hates. His head aches, and the floor is cold underneath his bare feet, but he stays down there just the same, waiting to let Akechi in. 

The bottle of whiskey hidden behind the jars of coffee beans and other ingredients sings a siren song of faint clinking when the thunder rumbles, and Akira has to stifle the want to drown his sorrows in alcohol at 6:13 in the morning. Lightning flashes outside, lighting up the café like stage lights. He feels himself slipping back into sleep, leaning his head on his hand as he sits, hunched over, at the bar. 

It can't be more than fifteen minutes into his brief snooze when the lock breaks. It's a sharp sound, and the splintering of wood fully rouses him. Akira snaps to attention, and as ready as someone who's only wearing a knitted grey sweater can be, he grips the keys to Leblanc between his fingers. It's unexpected, and Akira feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. A strange mix of excitement, fear, and glee creep down his spine. 

Dripping a dark liquid onto the floor, a figure in a heavy trenchcoat stands in the doorway, panting as they lower their foot down from where they kicked the door in. Akira lowers his fist, dropping the keys onto the countertop. 

"Akechi?" He asks, moving closer. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

Unmoving, Akechi stares down at Akira, his hair tied back from his face. A deep gash in his arm drips onto the floor, and Akira draws his hand back, looking back at him. 

"Akira," Akechi breathes, ungloved hands shaking slightly. "Akira, I -" 

Shushing him, the dark-haired boy leads him to the attic, making him take the heavy overcoat off. Peppered with cuts and embedded glass in his arms and hands, Akechi Goro is sitting on the end of his bed, staring numbly at the floor. 

"You didn't have to break the door down, you know," Akira mutters, dousing a cotton ball in antiseptic. 

Akechi says nothing, but he tears his eyes away from the floor to look balefully up at the dark-haired boy. "You were asleep." 

"You could have knocked," Akira huffs, dabbing at the deep slash on the detective's arm. "I would have let you in."

Glancing down, Akechi winces but somehow manages to raise an eyebrow in judgment. "What is it with you and not wearing pants?" 

"What is it with you and looking?" He replies seamlessly, then pauses. The silence stretches on as he continues to dab at the wound. "What happened?" 

For a while, there isn't an answer. As Akira continues to clean the gash on his companion's arm, the uneven gasps in shock and pain break the silence, and at one point, Akechi's hand clenches around his wrist. 

"I drove my father's car into his front door." Akechi finally answers, looking Akira dead in the eyes. 

Shocked, he blinks rapidly, a million questions racing through his head. "Your - What? Why? Who even is he?" 

Abruptly, Akechi stands up, wincing as he puts his weight on his leg. Taking the overcoat in his right hand, he fishes for his phone in the pockets with his other hand. It's cracked, but the screen's glow is bright against the darkening skies that spill into Akira's room. Akira, concern etched into his face, stands as well, gently taking him by the arm. 

"Akechi, please, why did you do it?" He urges. 

The older boy stares him down sternly. "Because I hate him. I'd do it again."

The sentence hangs in the air, an atmosphere of severity in Akechi's statement. Akira doesn't doubt that, not even for one second, he'll carry out his word. 

"Then will you at least explain why?" Akira begs, standing in front of the stairwell in an attempt to block the exit. "Your arm is still in bad condition. Please, Goro, let me help you."

At the mention of his name, Akechi's eyes sharpen. "Using first names, are we?" 

"You use mine all the time." He retorts, bringing a hand to rest on the handrail. "And I think we've _certainly_ grown close enough to use them." 

"What makes you think that whatever _that_ was was meant something?" Akechi argues, brow knitted in frustration. 

He scoffs. "Oh, I don't know, maybe because you put your _tongue_ in my mouth?" 

"I'm certain you and Makoto did worse, but you're so quick to deny you never even loved her!" Akechi prods his fingers into Akira's shoulder, pushing him lightly. 

Akira steps forward, pointing at him menacingly. "Leave her out of this."

"Or what," Akechi laughs, "you'll hit me? You'll say something _mean_ , and I'll go running home with my tail between my legs? You don't understand how little the value of your words is in my eyes, Kurusu."

Akira sucks in a breath as if he was about to yell back, but nothing comes out. The words stung like needles, but Akira couldn't feel them sink in. As good as he was at lying, this particular untruth fell flat. 

"You care, Goro. You really do, and you're scared, now." He hisses, backing Akechi further across the room. "If you didn't care, you wouldn't be here. You wouldn't have spoken to Niijima, and you wouldn't have done what you did last night." 

The words linger in the air as Akechi fails to force out a sharp retort. Triumphant, Akira straightens out, lowering his hand and briskly walking over to the crate with the bottle of antiseptic on it. He looks pointedly at the bed, glaring at the detective until he sits down. Sullenly, Akechi slumps onto the mattress, letting the jacket fall to the floor at his feet. It crumples like a sheet, the folds straight and stark against the tan color of the overcoat. Akira goes back to rummaging through the first aid kit, looking for gauze to wrap Akechi's arm in. Thunder growls behind the flimsy glass of the window, and rain starts to pool on Akira's windowsill, dripping into the dark space between the wall and his bed. 

Akira tears into the fabric with his teeth, holding it gently in his mouth as he presses an antiseptic patch on Akechi's upper arm. He winces, and lightning flashes through the glass, quickly followed by a clap of thunder that lasts longer than the others. It echoes around the attic space like a shrill clash of swords against each other, accompanied by the meek squeaking of wood as it's pushed by the wind. 

Akira looks up, just as Akechi's mouth closes, removing the bandage from his teeth. "Did you say something?"

As if he is about to deny it, the muscles in his jaw clench, and his head turns to the side slightly, but he catches himself. 

"If what I did meant so much to you," He begins softly, stopping as the lightning flashes. 

They wait in silence for the thunder, each staring straight into the other's eyes, frozen. When it roars, it shakes the panes in Akira's window, but Akechi looks fiercely into Akira's eyes. 

"If what I did meant so much to you, then why won't you say the word?" He states, and the silence that comes after is heavy, dark like a mourning shroud. 

Akira looks back at the weakly bleeding wound, then back at Akechi's face, not quite meeting his eyes. "Why don't you?" 

" _Say_ it, Akira. What did I do?" He urges, the lightning reflecting off of his eyes like a candle reflects off wine. Rich and deep, Akira can't help but gaze into them, fear and anticipation gripping his heart. 

"You," He looks back down at the gauze, winding it around his fingers. "You kissed me. You kissed me, and then you left." 

Akechi's brow furrows. "'Then I left?' That's what you're hung up on?" 

"No!" Akira shouts over the thunder, tightening the gauze around his fingers. "I'm not - Stop putting words in my mouth." 

Rain throws itself against the windows. It reflects like holes in a thin sheet of fabric across the wooden floor of the attic. They creep closer to them, like little ants, and Akira's head starts to spin. The darkness of their shadows creeps across his legs and arms. A sudden pain in his head brings his hand to his temple. Then, like remembering a dream from years ago, he wonders why he knows how to dress a wound. Staring at the bandage wrapped around his hands, then at the torn flesh in Akechi's arm, the word "Crow" comes to mind. He murmurs the name, mulling it around his mouth like wine as he tries it out on his tongue. 

Then, it's gone, like sand that slips through his fingers. Bits of it linger, like grains underneath his fingernails, but when he stares at his hands, he finds the fabric is woven so tight that his fingertips are purple. Unraveling it, he looks up at Akechi, who's staring at him curiously. 

"You left without giving me an explanation or even a reason why you did it. Why you kissed me." He states, then firmly wraps the gauze around Akechi's arm. 

Akechi frowns at him, flinching as Akira knots the bandage tightly. "There doesn't have to be a reason. You were just there, and I-" 

"You what? Just thought it might be funny? Might blow off some steam?" Akira snaps, "I'm sorry that we're forever repeating Sunday the third of September, but that doesn't mean my feelings don't mean anything, that _I_ don't mean anything!" 

Akechi tears his arm away from Akira's hands, anger flashing in his eyes. "That is _not_ what I said." 

"Then what are you saying?" Akira yells, a tone of desperation in his voice. "Because right now, I really don't think you've thought this through." 

By the time he finishes his sentence, his voice is hoarse. Regaining the breath he lost from his shouting, Akira stares defiantly at the detective, his hands knotting in the bedsheets. Akechi inhales as if he's about to retort sharply, but he stops, rage simmering behind his eyes as he fixes his gaze on the floor. 

"I have thought everything through, Akira. Every single possibility, every why, every how, hell, even every what. Don't you _dare_ tell me I haven't thought anything through." He growls through gritted teeth, his knuckles white around the knot on his bandage. 

Akira crosses his arms over his chest. "Then you know exactly why you did it, then? You can give me a full explanation, write me a thesis, since you just _love_ those, on why you did what you did."

"Jesus, Akira," He rubs his hand against his face, exasperated. "I can't exactly write a thesis on -" 

Akira takes him by the shoulders, shaking him firmly. "You can't or you won't?"

Akechi's face darkens, and he bares his teeth like a wild animal. "I _won't_."

Scoffing, the younger boy looks to the window, watching the lights from other houses glow faintly in the gloom. The clouds move slowly, electricity rippling through them like someone waving a torch through a fog. He can't see anyone in the street, and he wonders if this is a sign of change. Deciding he can't afford to hope, he squashes the idea down into his bones, not giving it a chance to be broken. 

"You're too stubborn for your own good," He breathes, focusing on the reflection of Akechi's profile in the windowpane. 

He laughs bitterly, staring at Akira with a strange expression on his face. It's completely unreadable, and it sends a chill into Akira's skin when he realizes that it excites him. 

"I could say the same about you," Akechi says, the lightning flashing on his face. 

Akira turns his head, facing Akechi with unflinching severity. "You say a lot of things about me. I don't know how many of them are true." 

The thunder comes soon after that, shaking the pooling water underneath the windowsill. The steady drip that comes after the rainwater falls between the wall and the bed faintly continues through the thunder, steadily ticking like a clock against the puddle it's made on the floor. 

Akechi shrugs, cocking his head to the side. "But you don't care anymore, do you?" 

Akira bristles, rearing back with fury. "How can you assume that? How could you _possibly_ know what goes on in my head? Of course I care. It's only you who doesn't! You've never cared, not even before this all started." 

"You don't know that," Akechi warns, narrowing his eyes. "I _have_ cared, you just -" 

Akira cuts him off, interrupting with a shout that drowns out any other noise in the room. "I just don't see it? I've been looking at you for so long, Goro, waiting for you to change this day in a way that _matters_ , a way that makes me want to continue to live in it for a few more hours!" 

Before Akira can continue, a hand shoots out, taking him by the chin and forcing him to look up into Akechi's eyes. Any response he could have dies in his throat as he's tugged forward, his chest hammering in anticipation. Slowly, with deliberate movements in his eyes and lips, Akechi leans down, tilting his head like one would tilt a key into a lock. 

"Does this," He murmurs, "matter to you?" 

Rendered speechless in shock and a strange transfixion in the way the brown-haired boy's mouth moves, Akira can only blink, his lips barely parted. Akechi's eyelashes fan across his skin like the wings of a bird as he looks down, smiling slightly. 

"I have cared for so long, dearest, that I can't think of a way to show it more boldly." He lilts and lets his head turn to the opposite side, gazing at Akira, aloof and imperious. 

Akira places his right hand on the bed, moving closer subconsciously as the older boy raises an eyebrow. "Think harder." 

"If you insist." 

Despite believing that he got through to Akechi, Akira wakes up to the news blaring a headline that spills shivers down his spine. He watches Akechi get shoved into the back of a police car, snarling obscenities at a tall man with no hair and odd glasses, bruises dotting his face. The man tries to hide his face from the cameras, but there are so many of them, all eating up the breaking news that Tokyo's beloved Detective Prince has gone insane. A woman in an orange blouse reads out the story into a microphone, her voice stoic and unfeeling as Akira reads the most devastating news he's heard in a while. Life in prison for Akechi means nothing, but the conversation they'll have to have eventually will sting like needles. Then, a thought dawns on him. 

What if, one day, they don't restart? What if, one day, everything matters? One day, the alarm won't ring out, it won't start raining in the morning, Sojiro will come in and make coffee, and Sae's phone won't ring. When that happens, and if it happens, what will they have done? What if they just stopped, and the world finally grew tired of waiting for them. The inked circle on the calendar would be permanent, and it would exist forever, unlike the vanishing ring that disappeared with every single sunrise. That kind of permanence is undoable. Akira's forgotten fear of death wouldn't even reignite to warn him. There wouldn't be anything to stop them. The world would turn without warning, and they wouldn't be spinning with it. He doesn't open the café that day. 

When he wakes up the next cycle, he sends a quick text to Akechi, telling him not to do anything stupid. He doesn't read it, but Akira's sure he's seen it on the lockscreen of his phone. Futaba comes in to confess to Ann. Both of them run out, but Akira still doesn't know what she wants to drink. When Sae and Tae come in, Akira serves her a latte. She's satisfied with it, and her phone rings near the end, and her boss' voice is harsh and grating through the receiver. Wrinkling her nose at the tone he uses, Tae unwraps a lollipop and sticks it in her scowling mouth, placing a comforting hand on her girlfriend's arm when it's over. 

Akira goes to see a movie at four in the afternoon. It's a shitty horror movie with chainsaws and screaming teenagers, but sometimes gallons of fake blood are what you need. Outside, underneath a large umbrella, stand Haru and Ryuji. Waving him over, Haru calls out Akira's name into the gloom. He jogs over, happy to find shelter underneath their golf umbrella. 

"Good afternoon!" She greets him, offering him a handkerchief for his rain-spotted glasses. "What brings you here?" 

Akira nods to the glass doors of the cinema. "Was thinking of seeing a movie." 

"Is Yusuke back at the café?" Ryuji asks hopefully, toeing the ground with his sneaker. "He said he had some books to give me." 

Unable to help himself, Akira slides his glasses back onto his face. "Suddenly interested in art now, are we?" He jokes, but the looks on Haru's face as she stares past his shoulder dismally is enough to put him back into his place. 

Blushing wildly, Ryuji's hand lifts to the back of his head to ruffle his hair. "I can be interested in art if I wanna be!" 

"I could take you to a museum sometime, Ryu-chan!" Haru chirps as if remembering herself, cheerful and lively once again. 

A mix of regret, fear, and sadness flashes across Ryuji's face as he looks down at Haru, and her arm around his, painted fingernails digging into her own skin. He smiles, putting on a front. 

"Nah, don't worry 'bout it, babe." He chuckles, placing his hand over hers. 

Akira bids them goodbye, heading into the cinema to buy the tickets to a movie he's seen so many times before. The film was once fast-paced and chilling, but after seeing it so many times, all Akira can think about is Akechi. Akechi, whose blood dripped onto the café floor, all the way up to his bedroom, and then bled into the bandages Akira smoothed over his skin. Hands over skin. _Fuck_. He sinks lower into his seat, thinking about how they're going to live with the knowledge that... _That_ happened. First the kiss, now whatever that was upstairs, everything is changing. For the first time, Akira isn't sure if he likes the change or not. Hell, he knows that his friends would kill him for even remotely discussing the topic of a certain "detective" in the presence of both Futaba and Haru, but the thought of them being together? It would ruin them. It would destroy all of his friendships. 

A small voice calls out to him in the dark. "Maybe that doesn't matter anymore. The Velvet Room is gone. They're not your confidants anymore. _Nothing_ matters." 

Time is a funny thing, Akira thinks as he gets up and leaves the cinema. Sometimes it makes things more potent, but other times it makes everything more exposed. And, very rarely, it makes things just disappear. What a _rarity_ his neverending Sunday is, he thinks bitterly, opening the door to Leblanc and storming right past the miserable Futaba and her two companions, Makoto and Yusuke. He doesn't stop to talk to Makoto, knowing that their conversation would just end up spiraling into a dull, listless back and forth about why they didn't work. Carelessly, he grabs the bottles of whiskey and wine, one in each hand, knocking a bag of beans to the floor. They spill onto the floorboards with a rattling hiss, and the looks on his friend's faces are mixtures of confusion, worry, and anger. 

"Akira, what are you doing?" Makoto asks, getting to her feet and stepping in front of him. 

Akira stares at her in boredom. "Getting drunk. You're in my way." 

Futaba hides behind Yusuke's thin torso, and Makoto glares at him, trying to wrestle the bottles from his hands. "No, you're not. What is up with you?" 

Significantly taller than her, Akira simply holds the bottles over his head and squeezes past her, scaling the stairs two steps at a time. He doesn't bother to give her an answer. Instead, placing the bottles on his cabinet, he fishes in his pocket for his phone, dialing the only number he's bothered to remember since the loop started. Stomping up the stairs, Makoto frowns at him, reaching for the wine. Akira gently sticks his foot out, holding her in place as she leans against the sole of his boot, her fingertips grazing the side of the cabinet. The dial tone finally stops, and a tired voice comes from the other end of the line.

"What is it now, Kurusu?" Akechi groans. His voice is scratchy and hoarse. 

Maneuvering his foot to keep Makoto away from the bottles, he flops back onto his bed, holding the alcohol where the headboard would be. "Come over." 

"Why?" The detective asks, sighing. 

"Because - ow! Makoto!" Akira brings his knee away from where she's stepping on it, leaning over him to try and snatch the bottle. "Because I've got drinks and I'm bored. C'mon, just entertain me for a bit. I promise not to therapize you." 

"Is that Makoto grunting I hear? I swear to God, Kurusu, if you're calling me while you're fucking her, I'm going to -" 

Pulling a face, Akira expertly dodges a clumsy attack on her part. "What? God, no. She's trying to kill me, not peg me. Yeah, we dated, but I didn't really see her that way. She was like, you know, too much of a mom-friend to me." 

Freezing in place, Makoto turns to look at him, fury in her eyes. Slowly, she leans in, placing her ear to the speaker as Akira tries to push her face away. When Akechi says something snide, her face darkens, and she tackles Akira to the bed, her fist raised. 

"You little _shit_!" She hisses. "You know what he's done, and what he tried to do to you, and now you're inviting _Akechi_ _fucking_ _Goro_ around for what? A little game of chess? To get drunk and - and -" 

Pushing her off, the dark-haired boy stares at her tiredly, picking up his phone once more. "Hold on, Akechi, I'm going to have to put you on hold." 

"Oh, are they worried about me killing you again?" The detective drawls, doing it purely to wind Makoto up. "Wait. Kurusu, they know about you, right?

He doesn't answer, despite hearing the worry in the detective's voice. Akira is finding it hard to care. So instead of telling him off, he puts Akechi on hold and turns to face his ex-girlfriend. Squaring her shoulders, Makoto drills her eyes into his face in pure anger, panting like a rabid animal. Opposite her, Akira's got his hands shoved in his pockets, eyes heavy-lidded with boredom. 

"Akira, what the hell does he mean by that?" She asks, her voice low enough to be a growl. 

He thinks about showing her the scars or the rope burn, but he knows she wouldn't be able to see it. Instead, he pops the cork out of the wine bottle and takes a large gulp, running his thumb over his lips when he's finished. The sun is setting in Yongen-Jaya, turning the raindrops gold as they fall from the sky, hitting the windowpane gently. Makoto waits for her answer, and Akira knows she's not leaving until he makes her, so he walks straight up to her and leans down to whisper in her ear. 

"Fuck off, Niijima." He says, thinking of the right words to say that would make her run down the stairs. Not necessarily meaning all of them, he pours out all of the hurtful things he can say to her, watching her the anger flare in her eyes like a fire.

He recognizes the pain of the slap before he actually acknowledges that Makoto has hit him. She'll forget. He watches her back as she stiffly descends the stairs, his cheek stinging. 

"I'm here," Goro says into the receiver, rolling his eyes as he watches Akira descend the stairs in, once again, nothing but his button-up shirt and knitted grey sweater that smells like coffee. 

Blearily, the dark-haired boy looks up at him through the windowpane, and Goro feels his heart drop into his stomach. Akira looks like he's been crying. As a professional in suppressing his own feelings, Goro is unsure of how to act. Should he comfort him? Tell him to keep it together? Should Goro even mention it at all? He doesn't have the time to get his thoughts together, or even say anything, because immediately, Akira grabs him by the collar and kisses him gently, easing onto the balls of his feet to reach him properly. It's nothing like Goro expects. There isn't a clash of teeth and tongue or even the needy whimpers he heard last time. Instead, it's gentle, tender, and it feels like rain. He knows that isn't an actual description, but he's beyond words right now. 

And then it's over, and Akira drops his heels back, shrinking an inch or two, and he lets go of Goro's collar. "I'm sorry." 

"Why are you -" Goro starts, but then his eyes go wide. "Akira, what did you _do_?" 

Shrugging, the dark-haired boy sways to the side, and Goro has to catch him by the shoulders to keep him from falling to the floor. Guiding Akira to sit at one of the booths, he examines him for any clues or giveaways that Akira has done something stupid again. When his hands drop to the boy's wrists and come back damp, he curses underneath his breath, seeing the dark stains seep through the sweater. Slowly, Akira curls up to Goro's chest, sobbing quietly. 

Unsure of what to do, Goro places his hand on the side of Akira's head, awkwardly pulling him closer. He smells of coffee, wine, and blood, and the combination swims in his head. He pats Akira's shoulder, trying to get him to move upstairs, but the dark-haired boy doesn't, or can't, budge. God, what a mess this was. And to think, here he was, trying to stop this idiot from dying when the thing he wanted the most before this all happened was to kill him. 

Slipping his arm underneath Akira's shoulders, he drags him up the stairs, setting him down on the bed and picking through the first aid box for the gauze and wound dressings. 

"Well, well, well." He mutters, wrapping the wound dressings over Akira's wrists. "And to think _you_ were the one patching me up yesterday."

Akira doesn't say anything. It's alright, Goro wants to tell him. But he doesn't, so he keeps applying pressure and binding the cuts on Akira's wrists. Honestly, he's lucky they're not that deep and that he's narrowly avoided hitting his artery. It's almost like he didn't want to die at all. Once he's done, Goro pulls a plain-looking t-shirt from Akira's small dresser, placing it on the bed. 

"You should change." 

Akira nods, pulling his shirt and sweater off and letting them fall to the floor. In the light, his pale skin makes him glow like a ghost. Goro's unsure of how he feels about that comparison, but other things preoccupy his mind right now, like the hand on his wrist, tugging him onto the god-awful milk crate bed. 

" _Please_ ," Akira whispers, his eyes red-rimmed and shiny with tears. "I don't want to be alone." 

Fuck it, Goro thinks, this needs to be addressed. There is no time like the present (?) to stop running away from things. Gently, so terribly gently, he lowers himself down onto the bed next to Akira, whose neglect of the shirt that he picked out for him means there is now a warm back pressed to his chest, permeating through his thick jacket. Awkwardly, Goro removes it, kicking off his shoes and shoving his gloves in his pockets. 

Against his better judgment, Goro thinks about what he feels, what matters in this strange, strange cycle, and what he should do about the growing concern he has for Akira's wellbeing. Yes, they argue, and yes, the boy pisses him off endlessly, but he can't bring himself to believe anything that comes out of his own mouth is actually said to hurt. He hopes Akira knows that. It's likely he doesn't, and Goro owes him an explanation. Usually, the thought of explaining his feelings to Kurusu Akira would make him physically sick, but oddly enough, it doesn't. As Akira's beck rises and falls against his chest on a cramped mattress, Goro lets himself stand still in an ever-moving cycle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops kind of forgot about this fic  
> don't worry, i'm working hard on all sorts of stuff, so there will be an update!!  
> ...  
> eventually!!


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